


Keep a Place for Me

by acedavestrider



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Only One Bed, The Lonely - Freeform, post mag 159, pre MAG 160, yall already KNOW what the fuck is up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acedavestrider/pseuds/acedavestrider
Summary: “I like sleeping next to you.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 7
Kudos: 85





	Keep a Place for Me

**Author's Note:**

> typical jonmartin safehouse fic because im a simple person with simple needs
> 
> yes i write in second person no i will not explain why, click on my profile to learn my horrible secret

The few weeks you spend with Martin, alone and virtually undisturbed in the hills of Scotland, are blissful in ways you never quite manage to articulate. The space you’re allowed together after the trouble caused by Peter and Elias, and before the eventual end of the world, grant you a brief but potent respite from the last several years of arduous, gruesome work. Crossing the threshold into Daisy’s safe house for the first time feels like pressing yourself through the thin skin of a soap bubble, encapsulated in a safe space while the world outside distorts into technicolor, warped images that feel like a lifetime away. You let out a breath you think you may have been holding for upwards of four years, and allow yourself the pleasure of feeling… hopeful, for once. 

When Martin turns to you, nervous eyes still slightly clouded with the influence of The Lonely and tears you can tell he’s trying desperately not to shed, you give him the most reassuring smile you can muster. He tries to smile back but doesn’t quite make it, and you both stand in the doorway of the safehouse, cold air blowing against your backs for a long time before you start to move. 

It’s a lovely little house, a cabin-style building that’s just big enough to hold the basics, and nothing more - a small kitchen, a bedroom and bathroom, a living area with a fireplace. It has running water and electricity, and is just far away from any major town that you and Martin can rest comfortably without interruptions from any curious passersby. 

The first few days are odd. You’re both still recovering from your respective encounters with The Entity Formerly Known as Peter Lukas, and it lends to an odd air between you, thick and difficult to parse. Martin hasn’t touched you since dropping your hand upon exiting the domain of The Lonely, and you can feel him distancing himself again, the entity’s influence still a vice grip around his throat. You hardly have the energy to speak to him, having spent most of it just to retrieve him from the clutches of The Lonely to begin with, and now you find yourself extremely... Hungry. Hungry enough that you begin to find it rather bothersome, the way that it starts to pull at your skin like an unceasing, unnerving itch. It is completely out of the question that you find your sustenance by means of an unwilling, personally delivered statement, but the Hungrier you get the more tempting the idea becomes. 

Basira has sent a few statements through, as she promised, but in the interim before their delivery you’re in desperate need of a distraction. Martin notices this, just as you notice the sullen pallor of his skin, the gray tint in his blue eyes. He suggests a trip to the closest supermarket to pick up some food that isn’t canned or frozen, and while it won’t exactly satisfy your Hunger, you’re hoping the action of leaving the cabin will distract you from the gnawing claws of The Eye scratching against the inside of your stomach.

You’re unprepared for how difficult it is to be in public when your body aches for sustenance as much as it does. It’s nearly impossible to stave off the nourishment that The Eye craves when you’re in such a state, and you find yourself gripping the shopping cart with white knuckles in an attempt to stop yourself from asking random strangers to tell you their story. 

A soft voice breaks through the static in your ears, which had been threatening to build to a deafening crescendo. “Jon,” Martin says gently, warm hand on your wrist suddenly. “You look like you’re going to be sick.” 

“I’m just Hungry,” you say, through gritted teeth. 

Martin frowns at this, and glances over his shoulder as if waiting for the police to arrive at the mere mention of your cosmic malnutrition. “Anyone in particular?” he asks. 

You close your eyes, take a deep breath. “The woman in the black jacket,” you mutter. “With the child.” An encounter with The Corruption, most likely, based on the marks dotting her hands, the _smell_ you can sense coming off of her -

You hear Martin suck in a breath as he spots the woman, and his hand shifts to your lower back to steer you away from the two. You allow yourself to be gently herded into another aisle, and the overwhelming pull in your gut, aching for contact with the woman, starts to dissipate. 

“Basira said the statements should be here soon,” he reminds you. 

“I know-”

“But in the meantime, maybe,” he swallows, “maybe I could help?” 

You look at him, but he won’t meet your eye. “What?” 

“I don’t know, maybe I could…” He shifts his weight and lets out a sigh. “Tell you my story? You were witness to a lot of it, I suppose, but it’s better than _nothing_.” 

“No,” you say firmly. The idea startles you so much you almost forget about the woman entirely, hands shaking for an altogether different reason now. “This is not up for debate.” 

“Jon, come on,” Martin argues. “You look a mess, you need something to hold you over-”

“I said _no,_ Martin.” Such a long and personal interaction with an avatar is not worth reliving, regardless of how much it could potentially sustain you. You’ve made a lot of mistakes, more than you can count, but you refuse to let yourself become a beacon of disdain and emptiness in Martin’s nightmares, an indifferent witness to his suffering at the hands of Peter Lukas. It’s simply out of the question. 

“Fine,” he concedes, and the look on his face is so openly concerned that it makes your stomach hurt with something other than hunger. “But if you keel over in the middle of the grocery store I’m just going to leave you here to deal with it.” 

You sigh and stoop down to grab another box of tea, despite the several already present in the cabin. “No, you won’t,” you say simply, and Martin doesn’t look at you. 

* * *

The statements come in. You have to ration them, but they quell your Hunger to a more manageable state, and you’re able to maintain your grip on the last dregs of your humanity for a bit longer. Martin makes you tea to drink when you’re done reading, sometimes with biscuits, sometimes with bread and jam, and always with the right amount of milk and sugar. You insist that you’re a grown man and can make your own tea, but when you try it never ends up tasting quite right. 

Martin. He’s still far too quiet for your liking, just withdrawn enough that you’re able to notice. His blue eyes have yet to regain the vibrancy you recall them once having, and there are moments when you start to feel static electricity tingling up your spine, only to look over and see Martin’s skin becoming unsettlingly translucent. Calling out to him usually brings him back to you, but the frequency of the event is concerning, the number of times you have to say his name making your heart pound. 

You pass him in the bathroom one day, steam rolling out from the open door after his shower. He’s standing in front of the mirror, clutching a towel around his waist, and flickering violently between existence and non-existence. You watch with mild panic as he fades in and out of reality, blank eyes staring emptily into his reflection, as if he doesn’t even realize what’s happening. You have to shout at him to get his attention, voice reaching a fever pitch you’re not very fond of. He snaps back to complete opacity in an instant, and his dull eyes cross the mirror to meet yours. 

“Yes?” he asks, voice hollow. 

You shudder. You want to reach out to him, wrench him out of the grasp of The Lonely, wrap yourself around him to ensure that he won’t disappear some time in the night when you’re not looking. You want to tell him a million things, make just as many promises, and shield him from the damage you’ve had such an unfortunate hand in causing. 

Instead, you ask, “Would you like some tea?” And he nods. 

A few minutes later Martin meets you on the couch, fully dressed but still unnervingly pale. He accepts the steaming mug you pour for him with shaking hands, though he just stares down at it for a while.

“Thank you,” he says finally, as an afterthought. 

You clutch onto your own mug, more for purchase than warmth, and consider him with a heavy gaze. “Are you doing alright?” 

“Oh,” he says, looking up at you like you surprised him. “Uh, y-yeah, yes. I’m… doing fine.” 

He’s never been very good at lying to you. 

“Martin,” you say. “Please don’t make me _ask_.” Because you will, if you need to. If it’s necessary. If it’ll reduce his suffering in any way. 

He sighs and sets his mug on the worn coffee table in favor of wringing his hands together, nervous. “I… haven’t been sleeping well,” he admits. “Been having bad dreams.” 

“Bad dreams?” you repeat, in the same moment that your heart gives out a dull thud. 

“Uh, yeah, I-”

“Am I in them?” you ask before you can stop yourself. 

“Sorry?” 

“Your dreams,” you explain. “Do you see me in them?” 

“Er, I mean - some… times?” he says with an awkward shrug. “You’re not usually in the bad ones, though.” 

You look at him with your mouth slightly open, and when he finally meets your eyes you see a shock of blue fill into his irises, cool and soft. 

“That’s… not what you meant,” he mutters. His cheeks have taken on a delightful shade of pink under his lightly tanned skin and you feel the corners of your mouth twitch into a helpless smile. 

“No,” you breathe. You let one beat of silence pass between you before asking, “What do you dream about, then? When they’re bad?” 

He bristles a little bit at this and you watch him wipe his palms on the knees of his pants. “Uh.” 

“This isn’t an interrogation, Martin,” you remind him. “I’m not trying to get your statement, I’m just... asking. As a…” You want to say _friend_ but it seems so wrong, like such a huge misrepresentation of what’s actually going on. You clear your throat and say instead, “I’m asking because I’m worried about you.” 

Those big eyes stare up at you, baring the weight of The Lonely on his psyche in such a way that you could see it even without the influence of The Eye. It hurts your chest. 

“Drowning,” he answers eventually, with a tremor in his voice. “Being… lost at sea? Sometimes I’ll… I’ll shout, but no one seems to hear me.” 

You hum, just to let him know you’re listening. He swallows and stares down at his knees. 

“Sometimes…” Martin shifts at this, and silence presses into you as he chooses his words. “Sometimes I see my mum,” he says eventually, though it’s with an audible crack. “And she’ll… say horrible things to me. And maybe she’s right about some of them, but she doesn’t stop, and then it’ll just be me and her and I-”

When the first tears pool over his eyes and down his cheeks you feel a shock through you, the same kind of panic that always jolts up your spine at the prospect of being faced with someone’s bare emotions. Georgie always used to make fun of you for your awkward aversion to seeing others expressing their feelings, and you curse your inability to find any words to bring Martin some comfort, some relief from the tug of The Lonely on his mind. 

You reach out for him instead, rest a hand on the knee he’s staring at so ardently. He doesn’t react. 

“It’s alright,” you try, unsure. When he doesn’t answer, you continue, in the only way you know how. “Severing the connection of an entity after such a… _personal_ experience is difficult, but not unheard of. If I’m to believe the words of previous victims, talking about it seems to make a difference, even if it’s not in the form of a _statement._ ”

“Right,” Martin mutters. He pulls one of his sleeves over his hand to wipe away the moisture on his cheeks and you shift a hair closer to him. 

“The Lonely is… a tricky entity,” you say. “It can prey on you in such precise ways that you’d hardly ever notice, until you were too far gone.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I can see it in your eyes sometimes,” you say suddenly. The blunt openness of your statement is enough for Martin to finally look up at you, and you’re relieved to see the cool blue of his eyes unclouded, mostly undisturbed save for his tears. 

“You can?” he asks, surprise tinting his tone. 

“Yes,” you’re able to say clearly. “They’ll look… hazy. Like fog rolling out over the sea.” 

He frowns at your pointed and frankly tactless choice of comparison but nods nonetheless. “What do I do then?” 

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “You need to mitigate it somehow, cripple its hold on you. I’m not suggesting you attempt to starve it like Daisy has, and I doubt such an effort would have much of an effect here, but perhaps there are ways for you to restrengthen your connection to reality, some kind of anchor-”

This shakes Martin out of his stupor and he starts suddenly to move your hand from his knee. You go to retract your light touch, thinking you may have overstepped your boundaries, whatever they may be, only to have Martin thread his fingers through yours in an easy motion. He looks up at you for permission, or maybe reassurance, and you squeeze his palm in response. 

“Does this help?” you ask. 

“Yes,” he says confidently. 

You pick up your mug from where you’d set it on the coffee table and lean back against the couch in relative contentment, hand warm in his. “We’ll do this, then.” 

Martin nods, once, and presses closer to you so your shoulders and thighs are flush together. He mirrors your posture and retrieves his own mug, finally taking a sip of his now lukewarm tea.

“Right,” he says. “Sounds like a plan.” 

Martin takes to your advice with surprising earnesty, though it requires just a little bit of coaxing. You have to pull at his sleeve sometimes, or press your fingers into the pulse at his wrist, just to get him to uncurl from himself and remember that you’re nearby. Within a day or so he falls into the idea rather easily, and starts to make a habit of coming to sit by you on the couch after you’ve recorded a statement, almost always with two cups of tea. He becomes a comfortable weight against your side, warm where his cheek presses into your shoulder, warm where his hand gently holds onto yours, warm all over. 

The blue in his eyes becomes more consistent, and the tone of his skin regains the pink hue you always found so endearing. But there are still moments when the mist of The Lonely coils around his expression, and you begin to notice a pattern, specifically at night. 

You sleep separately. It was decided during your initial introduction to the cabin, and more out of courtesy than anything. You’ve been taking turns sleeping on the sofa to make it fair for one another, though the air between the living space and the bedroom hangs heavy in the stillness of the night. Normally nights pass with little interruption, but occasionally you hear shifting from where Martin is sleeping, can pinpoint how many times he gets up to grab a glass of water, how much he tosses and turns throughout his slumber. Sometimes a particularly concerning sound will draw you to Look a little closer, though you don’t often find anything more than Martin in the grips of a fitful sleep, and he eventually settles down after a few minutes. 

Then one night he starts to call your name. You almost think you’ve imagined it, until you hear it again - quiet but persistent, his voice thick and mumbled with sleep. You wouldn’t think much of it if not for how distraught his voice sounds, almost panicked, as if desperately trying to reach you. You sit up when more words are added to his anxious cries - _wait, please, come back_ \- and soon find yourself standing in the doorway of the single bedroom. 

Martin is only asleep insomuch that his eyes are closed and he’s lying down; his movements are so agitated that you’re surprised has hasn’t woken yet, and the pained expression on his face is extremely worrisome. You call his name but he doesn’t hear you. You call his name again. His skin is shockingly translucent. 

No amount of words from your mouth, trembling and far too quiet for the circumstances, seems to rouse him from his nightmare. Even when you manage to push back your own fear and force your voice to a louder volume you don’t get any response, only a frown and a stitch between his eyebrows. 

Once you spot a tear trailing down his cheek, slipping over the bridge of his nose and wetting the pillow beneath him, you decide that you’ve had quite enough. You cross the room in a single stride and press onto the bed next to him, then slot your hand against his clammy cheek in an attempt to wake him. He doesn’t respond to your touch much more than your voice, though you see his eyes start to flutter once you give him a light shake. 

“ _Martin!”_ you call once more, voice cracking, and he wakes with a gasp, skin snapping back to opacity. 

Relief floods through you all at once, the part of you that was afraid he would never awaken instantly calmed, though you feel your heart rate become erratic again from the way he looks up at you. It’s with watery eyes, relief, confusion, and a shade of despair in his blue irises so deep that it fills you with dread. 

“Jon?” he whispers, as if he doesn’t believe you’re there. 

“You had a nightmare,” you feel the need to explain. You drag a thumb over the crest of his cheek to sweep away warm tears, but more fall in their place. 

“I thought you were -" He doesn’t finish his thought, instead pressing his hand to his mouth to stifle light sobs. He’s quiet for a moment, shuddering and sniffling, until he whispers “I’m sorry,” and your heart gives out an irritating, prominent throb. 

“Stop,” you say. You simply won’t have it. Martin tries to inch away from you but you pull him closer, wrap an arm around his shoulders to hold him against you. 

“Sorry,” he says again, through tears, muffled into your chest. He’s taken to clutching at the sleeve of your shirt, and his hand is cold against your arm. 

“It’s okay.” You don’t know what else to say, what phrase you could possibly offer to bring Martin back from the precipice of whatever horrible nightmare The Lonely presented for him. You settle on running your hand up and down his back instead, in the hope that your ministrations will bring some warmth back into his body. 

He cries against the fabric of your shirt and mumbles things you can hardly hear - something about being afraid, something about losing you - until he eventually falls back asleep. You don’t let yourself rest, not until you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing and the even beat of his heart hours later, and by the time you succumb to sleep the sun has nearly risen. 

* * *

Martin doesn’t bring up the incident until several days later, after you’ve made it a habit to sleep next to him every night. He starts stuttering about it one day while making you tea, in the incredibly awkward and charming way he seems to do just about everything. 

“I just wanted to, er, say thank you for the other night,” he starts, staring determinedly into a swirling mug of tea. “And, I mean, I appreciate it, really I do, but… you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I’m not saying I’m kicking you out, exactly, but if you’d be more comfortable… you know I wouldn’t be offended.” 

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “Sorry?” 

He sighs and still doesn’t look at you. “You know, if you’d rather…” One of his hands comes up to wave around ambiguously. “If you’d rather sleep separately, then… that’s fine, too. I won’t be upset.” 

“I don’t mind, Martin,” you say, unsure why he’s bringing it up. “If it’ll help keep The Lonely at bay then-"

“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts suddenly. When you stare at him, waiting for an explanation, he lets out another sigh. “Look, I… I know I said some things in the mist and if you’re uncomfortable sleeping next to me because of it then that’s fine, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to do so just because I-"

“I like sleeping next to you.” The words escape from your mouth before you can catch them, and before you even realize that you mean it. You’ve been kidding yourself about your motivations for weeks, insisting to your own muddled brain that you’ve only been staying so close to Martin to protect him from an entity that thrives off of isolation, but you know that’s not the entire story. It never has been. 

“I like sleeping next to you,” you repeat at his stunned silence, partly for your own benefit. “And if it helps keep The Lonely out of your head, then it’s doubly beneficial, yes?” 

“I - I suppose so?” 

“And as for the things you said when I found you, well, I-” You pause, struggling to find your words while Martin looks at you in surprise, and you’re eventually able to push the blanket of discomfort from your shoulders so you can be frank with him. “I’ve thought about what you said, quit a lot actually, and - well... please just consider your feelings irritatingly reciprocated.” 

Martin’s eyebrows rise and then fall, and then knit together in thought, and then his mouth tries to smile only to get stuck halfway through, and he lets out a bewildered breath. “Irritatingly?” he repeats curiously. 

You hum. “My feelings for you have done more to suggest the presence of my humanity than anything else,” you admit quietly. “It’s always been a rather… stark reminder. And very humbling.” 

Martin laughs at this, and it sounds so relieved that you almost laugh yourself. You can hardly focus with your heart pounding so heavily in your ears, but you still catch the way his cheeks have become pink, right under his eyes, and the way he’s looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time in weeks. 

You take a nervous sip of the tea he prepared for you, just to have something to do with your hands, only to find that it’s gone annoyingly lukewarm. “Might need to reheat this,” you mutter into the odd air. “Yours is probably cold, too.” 

Martin laughs again, bright and even. “I don’t really care about the tea, Jon.” 

“Oh!” you say with fake incredulity. You feel playful. You feel like a child. “You don’t care about _tea_ _?_ Are you feeling alright?” 

“I feel great,” he says. He steps closer to you. “Are _you_ feeling alright?” 

“For once,” you move to meet him halfway, “I think I am.” 

Martin has gotten close enough to you now that you’re forced to look up at him, and when you do you’re met with bright blue eyes, filled to the brim with exuberance, no clouds present. They flick down and then back up as his smile turns hesitant, and you graze his lower back with your hand to encourage him further. 

You’re almost surprised at how easy it is to kiss him. His touch is feather light but still firm in his intentions, a soft hand coming up to graze against your jawline. He presses against you like he never wants to let you go, and a pronounced heat starts to swell in your stomach, spreading to your fingers and toes. It’s not hot like a burn or a sting, but warm, and comforting, like the feeling you get after drinking a cup of tea. 

You reach out to grasp at the hem of his sweater and you must fumble slightly, or seem especially eager, because you feel his lips stretch into a smile against yours. He even laughs a bit, deep in his chest, and you pull away to let him have his chuckle for a moment only for him to chase after you not a second later. He’s a warm, solid weight against you, all soft fabric and gentle hands and shy laughs. 

The pounding of your heart soon creates a steady rhythm in your ears, and while your nerve endings feel as though they’ve been set alight you can hardly say that the sensation is unpleasant. It’s extremely grounding, in fact, to have your blood rushing and your palms sweating so markedly, your hands developing a delightful, joyous tremor as you pull Martin closer to you. You feel almost giddy, enough that it makes you want to laugh were you not otherwise occupied, and behind the giddiness is something like relief, though about what you’re not quite sure. But mostly you feel warm. And you feel present. 

You feel human. 

* * *

The feeling lasts right up until the Ritual, and returns, with very little effort, almost directly after. Martin shakes you awake in a panic about the state the world has collapsed into during your brief bout of unconsciousness, and you feel everything rush back to you all at once, as if jumping into a freezing cold pool. 

As you tell Martin to take a look up at the sky, screams of terror and chaos echoing all around you, all you can think about is how blue his eyes are. You can see how the effects of the completed Ritual are wreaking havoc in the space beyond Martin’s body, but it all seems muted, and far away. You realize with a start that you’re wearing his sweater, as you had accidentally dirtied yours earlier in the day, and he’s wearing your scarf. 

Martin is holding onto you, his hands a steadying anchor, and in lieu of panicking you start to remember. You remember everything from the last few weeks, and everything else leading up to them. You remember Martin making you tea, the same way he used to make it at the Institute, and commenting on how much sugar you prefer. You remember staying up late with him during nights where sleep evaded you both, and how safe you felt in his arms even after the worst nightmares. You remember how he had laughed this morning at your choice of colored scrunchie to tie up your ever-growing hair, and how he had kissed you goodbye before leaving for his walk. 

“Jon?” Martin calls at your silence, likely assuming the worst. 

But you feel fine, save for the glorious headache blooming behind your temples. There is no urge to See, or to Find, or to Eat; you cannot be of any more service to The Eye. You’ve served your purpose, and this becomes clearer the longer Martin stares down at you, concerned, afraid. 

You reach up to touch his cheek and find that he’s remarkably substantial, as if you’d been touching him through woolen gloves up until now. He helps you stand and slings an arm around your waist at your trembling stature, and then you both turn your faces skyward, and stare. 

Martin is near tears when you start to look at him instead, and while you can no longer feel your connection to The Eye, you suddenly become incredibly aware of something. Whether it’s through determination, or love, or your own dangerous, stupid persistence, you’re able to say, with complete and utter certainty, “We’ll be alright.” 

**Author's Note:**

> this didnt end up Exactly the way i wanted it to but i just needed to feel at least a little bit hopeful after ep 160 because like come on are you serious 
> 
> if jonny sims doesnt give them a happy ending im going to rusty quill headquarters and demanding it myself
> 
> thanks for reading though and feel free to leave a comment if you want!!


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